We all have them. Some of us more than others:
My younger brother boils eggs in a kettle. I (in the company of friends) teased him the other evening about this absurd practice and he retorted that it wasn’t as bad as all that, “it’s a new kettle!”. I’m still trying to work that one out.
The wife’s sister enjoys “the element of surprise”, like turning up when you least expect her. This afternoon my little company was struggling away, trying to turn an honest dollar, when who should appear, not at the door, but rather as an apparition at the window…
The older brother would say that it not he who is eccentric, but rather his travel agent. Off he goes to attend some celebration at his old university (McGill in Montreal) and what happens – he gets endlessly delayed by immigration officials at Washington DC (“excuse me Sir, but are you aware that this is the USA, not Canada…there are perfectly good flights to Montreal directly from London…do you wish to do harm to our President?”).
I won’t mention the daughter who knows she is “next up”. She reads this blog a little too avidly (an eccentricity in its own right).
Neither will I mention the daughter-in-law’s “christening” trousers. Abercrombie and Finch they were not (nor even Land Rover Owners Club official gear).
Oh dear! Too many people insulted…too little time!
Monday, October 18, 2004
Saturday, October 16, 2004
Looking the Part
Another Friday night, but it’s to London this time – catching the early evening train to Waterloo sensibly dressed in dinner jacket and black tie. I’m off to spend the evening with my friend Mr Angry at the Forty Club Annual Dinner at the Savoy (a cricket occasion if you really want to know, curious reader).
There is a tendency to feel a bit of a prat when you travel wearing a dinner jacket on a commuter train, surrounded by normally dressed people going about their normal life at 5.00pm. You have to “carry off” your appearance and a number of options occur. Obviously there is the “007” solution, total self-confidence and a look of superiority that says “these are my normal clothes, I have a gun and am off to a smart casino”. Then there is the “man from the band” solution, but you need a trumpet or other weird musical instrument case for that. I opted instead for the “total eccentric” solution as, having taken my seat, I produced a Bible from my briefcase and, somewhat ostentatiously, browsed through the Gospel according to St. Mark. Sadly this was not a sign of my devotion to religious matters, but rather swatting up on the reading I am to make at my granddaughter’s Christening later today. No-one took the empty seat beside me.
For the return journey, I was suitably refreshed with alcohol and felt quite normal with my tie askew, slumbering noisily all the way back to Petersfield. There I found that taxi drivers continue to exist in darkest Hampshire, even after midnight, and so I felt quite the part being chauffeur-driven back to my village and the somnolent wife and cat.
There is a tendency to feel a bit of a prat when you travel wearing a dinner jacket on a commuter train, surrounded by normally dressed people going about their normal life at 5.00pm. You have to “carry off” your appearance and a number of options occur. Obviously there is the “007” solution, total self-confidence and a look of superiority that says “these are my normal clothes, I have a gun and am off to a smart casino”. Then there is the “man from the band” solution, but you need a trumpet or other weird musical instrument case for that. I opted instead for the “total eccentric” solution as, having taken my seat, I produced a Bible from my briefcase and, somewhat ostentatiously, browsed through the Gospel according to St. Mark. Sadly this was not a sign of my devotion to religious matters, but rather swatting up on the reading I am to make at my granddaughter’s Christening later today. No-one took the empty seat beside me.
For the return journey, I was suitably refreshed with alcohol and felt quite normal with my tie askew, slumbering noisily all the way back to Petersfield. There I found that taxi drivers continue to exist in darkest Hampshire, even after midnight, and so I felt quite the part being chauffeur-driven back to my village and the somnolent wife and cat.
Thursday, October 14, 2004
Long Windedness
The first criticism of the “Ranting Nappa” is that it is too long-winded. And of course it should be long-winded, after all that is the essence of ranting.
It helps being English because we have more words to play with than other languages. I read somewhere that Shakespeare used 20,000 words in all his plays; whereas across the channel Racine (or was it Moliere?) only employed 2,000 words. Pity the poor person who did the counting!
The daughter’s godmother’s husband (why don’t I just say “Steve”?) used to say that one of the pleasures of reading The Economist was that every issue included a word that he had never encountered before. I, however, have enough trouble trying to understand (and therefore use correctly) the words I already think I know.
“Trauma” is one. I can handle “traumatic”, but every time I think I understand what it means I find it being used in a different way. Does it mean the mental consequence of grief, or the mental consequence of actual physical pain? I dunno, the word seems to crop up in both contexts.
Boris Johnson and my old workmate Jamie Camplin both use “elide” when they mean “omit” or “strike out” (I think). Maybe I should stop calling this a “blog” and call it a modernist “eclogue” instead. After all it is something of a poetic oration, though not in verse, addressed to shepherds or sheep or something.
Enough of this! Maybe I should start a "Society for the Eliding of Words from the English Language”. Once we have finished with a word, it should be struck off the list thus making the English language more manageable. A good starter would be the word “polytechnic”. This redundant word came to mind while driving past the imposing “University of Roehampton” last week.
It helps being English because we have more words to play with than other languages. I read somewhere that Shakespeare used 20,000 words in all his plays; whereas across the channel Racine (or was it Moliere?) only employed 2,000 words. Pity the poor person who did the counting!
The daughter’s godmother’s husband (why don’t I just say “Steve”?) used to say that one of the pleasures of reading The Economist was that every issue included a word that he had never encountered before. I, however, have enough trouble trying to understand (and therefore use correctly) the words I already think I know.
“Trauma” is one. I can handle “traumatic”, but every time I think I understand what it means I find it being used in a different way. Does it mean the mental consequence of grief, or the mental consequence of actual physical pain? I dunno, the word seems to crop up in both contexts.
Boris Johnson and my old workmate Jamie Camplin both use “elide” when they mean “omit” or “strike out” (I think). Maybe I should stop calling this a “blog” and call it a modernist “eclogue” instead. After all it is something of a poetic oration, though not in verse, addressed to shepherds or sheep or something.
Enough of this! Maybe I should start a "Society for the Eliding of Words from the English Language”. Once we have finished with a word, it should be struck off the list thus making the English language more manageable. A good starter would be the word “polytechnic”. This redundant word came to mind while driving past the imposing “University of Roehampton” last week.
Friday, October 08, 2004
Friends and Foes
“Go and write your blog … quickly”, orders the wife “and it would be good if you put the cat out for half an hour”. It’s Friday night and the cat and I dutifully go about our business.
It has been a strange week. Work is coming out of my ears, and yet none of it seems particularly rewarding, either financially or in terms of work-satisfaction. My online world is definitely attracting the “wrong sort of customer”; hawk-eyed students spotting that my site is undercharging for some required text that the publisher has just raised the price by 25%. Irritating phone calls from people demanding to know why the hard-to-source Springer-Verlag (New York Office only) title they ordered two days ago hasn’t been delivered by return of post. I am extremely likely to verbally “nut” one of them very soon.
Doing a Linux show at Olympia on Wednesday and Thursday was a time of mixed emotions, too. So many people coming up to the stand to ask “what happened to Sicilian Avenue?; “the shop in the City?”; even “where’s Darren, now?”. There were the usual crises (the non-operational printer which meant a nocturnal 80-mile round-trip to source another), the non-operational PDQ machine, the dire warnings that one hasn’t brought enough of this, that or the other. But it all worked pretty well, and it was great to have companionable contact with customers once again.
When I left publishing to become a bookseller I quickly realised that by running a specialist business I was likely to attract a fairly specialist sort of customer, and these people could point me at the right titles to stock with much more insight than publishers’ reps. By listening to their comments at the till, and by chasing up their asked-for books, you quickly establish a better business. You just don’t get that sense of human contact running a virtual bookstore. Gone are the Westlake’s and Blake’s; the Molyneux’s, Dr Elias and the teams from the local training companies. I miss them.
I also miss the staff. Just about every one of them, who span my thirteen-odd years of bookselling in London (and Brum). It’s good to see that they too regard those days as days to be recalled and have occasional reunions. I’m not sure if this is more in the spirit of school reunions or the type of gathering my Dad used to attend – of his fellow prisoners-of-war. Probably the latter!
There used to be a saying when I worked at Penguin that when people left the company (whether voluntarily or not) they always did better. I guess every rule has to have its exception.
It has been a strange week. Work is coming out of my ears, and yet none of it seems particularly rewarding, either financially or in terms of work-satisfaction. My online world is definitely attracting the “wrong sort of customer”; hawk-eyed students spotting that my site is undercharging for some required text that the publisher has just raised the price by 25%. Irritating phone calls from people demanding to know why the hard-to-source Springer-Verlag (New York Office only) title they ordered two days ago hasn’t been delivered by return of post. I am extremely likely to verbally “nut” one of them very soon.
Doing a Linux show at Olympia on Wednesday and Thursday was a time of mixed emotions, too. So many people coming up to the stand to ask “what happened to Sicilian Avenue?; “the shop in the City?”; even “where’s Darren, now?”. There were the usual crises (the non-operational printer which meant a nocturnal 80-mile round-trip to source another), the non-operational PDQ machine, the dire warnings that one hasn’t brought enough of this, that or the other. But it all worked pretty well, and it was great to have companionable contact with customers once again.
When I left publishing to become a bookseller I quickly realised that by running a specialist business I was likely to attract a fairly specialist sort of customer, and these people could point me at the right titles to stock with much more insight than publishers’ reps. By listening to their comments at the till, and by chasing up their asked-for books, you quickly establish a better business. You just don’t get that sense of human contact running a virtual bookstore. Gone are the Westlake’s and Blake’s; the Molyneux’s, Dr Elias and the teams from the local training companies. I miss them.
I also miss the staff. Just about every one of them, who span my thirteen-odd years of bookselling in London (and Brum). It’s good to see that they too regard those days as days to be recalled and have occasional reunions. I’m not sure if this is more in the spirit of school reunions or the type of gathering my Dad used to attend – of his fellow prisoners-of-war. Probably the latter!
There used to be a saying when I worked at Penguin that when people left the company (whether voluntarily or not) they always did better. I guess every rule has to have its exception.
Monday, October 04, 2004
Not Bloggin’ Weather
On days like today you drive to work, headlights-on in the near-dark pouring rain and immediately immerse yourself in an orgy of customer complaints, record-level mail-order-processing, humungous amounts of goods-in, behind-with-the accounts stuff, a really unnecessary order for urgent maritime books for Cyprus and then (hours later) you look out of the window and realise that … it’s all blue skies and sunshine outside; people are doing happy things like playing golf or walking the South Downs Way; enjoying a lingering lunch at one of those nice-but-expensive South of England pubs, all that sort of stuff. Then…much later…you drive home in the dark and the pouring rain…
Work is sometimes a four-letter-word. But it could be worse (says he Candide-style). The writer could be trying to rant about the Tory conference. Hearing Ms Widdicombe on the radio this morning (and Stephen Norris last evening), one realises that we already have a conservative government and that Mr Howard’s lot have nothing particular to add.
Mr Blair’s lot are about the least “extreme” form of government that one could hope for. Okay, they are townies and spend too much money trying to improve the “right” things like health, education, transport, etc., with too much bureaucracy and too little action. But would any sane person really prefer to replace them with Ann Widdicombe, Stephen Norris and people like that. Hell, I’d hate to have the Soames-man leading the way in Iraq; far better the useless Hoon and Jack-whatever the Foreign Secretary who turns unmemorability into an art form.
You are fortunate, dear reader, that the writer hasn’t yet got his mind around UKIP!
A ranter like myself cannot bring himself to vote Tory, or anyone-else for that matter. Time, perhaps, to give up bookselling and to enter politics…the “Ranting Party” is formed.
PS to copy editors: There are two semi-colons in this piece, so he’s getting better. But what about all those “…” things. Interestingly (or incredibly boringly if you don’t like trivia), Microsoft Word’s edit-find feature will find semi-colons, but not “…” things.
Work is sometimes a four-letter-word. But it could be worse (says he Candide-style). The writer could be trying to rant about the Tory conference. Hearing Ms Widdicombe on the radio this morning (and Stephen Norris last evening), one realises that we already have a conservative government and that Mr Howard’s lot have nothing particular to add.
Mr Blair’s lot are about the least “extreme” form of government that one could hope for. Okay, they are townies and spend too much money trying to improve the “right” things like health, education, transport, etc., with too much bureaucracy and too little action. But would any sane person really prefer to replace them with Ann Widdicombe, Stephen Norris and people like that. Hell, I’d hate to have the Soames-man leading the way in Iraq; far better the useless Hoon and Jack-whatever the Foreign Secretary who turns unmemorability into an art form.
You are fortunate, dear reader, that the writer hasn’t yet got his mind around UKIP!
A ranter like myself cannot bring himself to vote Tory, or anyone-else for that matter. Time, perhaps, to give up bookselling and to enter politics…the “Ranting Party” is formed.
PS to copy editors: There are two semi-colons in this piece, so he’s getting better. But what about all those “…” things. Interestingly (or incredibly boringly if you don’t like trivia), Microsoft Word’s edit-find feature will find semi-colons, but not “…” things.
Sunday, October 03, 2004
House of Love
I’m pleased that I never chose the Church as a career. I have no doubt that I could render a fiery sermon, get muddled over the choice of hymns and generally do all or most of the things that vicars do. But I would have found “change” hard to deal with.
My birth sign is Cancer, you see, and that means that I (tenaciously) cling on to old stuff. I’m very fond of the old communion service, traditional hymns, slightly mystical prayers and all that. So Friday nights rather long (1hr, 35mins) service to “license” the new vicar unsettled me a bit.
The bishop (wonderful hat) made no bones about it: the appointment should be “confrontational” when it comes to sleepy Sussex parishes which might prefer to wallow in tradition. Now I like the new vicar. He is young, pleasant and had obviously made a success of his previous parish (in Littlehampton if that means anything). But I didn’t recognise the hymns and I got all agitated when the vow to HM Queen was omitted - we got the vow to the Bishop of Chichester, no problem, but why was the one to HMQ rather obviously omitted when it was printed on the prayer sheet? Have we a Republican in our midst? Isn’t HM Missus Kwin (as Kwaage called her) meant to be boss of the C of E, Defender of Faith, etc?
I also wondered what my Mum would say if she knew that we lived next door to the “House of Love”, as the bishop described the parish church? Ho, hum. At any rate in an odd sort of way I rather enjoyed the occasion. It seemed to typify everything about the New Britain. In the pew ahead of us was a Littlehampton family with a small (maybe six or seven) child who was given freedom of the church by her parents. She wandered up and down the aisles, interrupting her obviously devout parents every couple of minutes, and never ever being told to quieten down, sit still, etc. By the third hymn it was too much for the wife who gave the child a mild (by her standards) rebuke. This was apparently a new experience for the child, and we later recalled the young Zoe (daughter of American friends) who had similarly been reared as a free spirit. Ugh, spank ‘em every time!
My birth sign is Cancer, you see, and that means that I (tenaciously) cling on to old stuff. I’m very fond of the old communion service, traditional hymns, slightly mystical prayers and all that. So Friday nights rather long (1hr, 35mins) service to “license” the new vicar unsettled me a bit.
The bishop (wonderful hat) made no bones about it: the appointment should be “confrontational” when it comes to sleepy Sussex parishes which might prefer to wallow in tradition. Now I like the new vicar. He is young, pleasant and had obviously made a success of his previous parish (in Littlehampton if that means anything). But I didn’t recognise the hymns and I got all agitated when the vow to HM Queen was omitted - we got the vow to the Bishop of Chichester, no problem, but why was the one to HMQ rather obviously omitted when it was printed on the prayer sheet? Have we a Republican in our midst? Isn’t HM Missus Kwin (as Kwaage called her) meant to be boss of the C of E, Defender of Faith, etc?
I also wondered what my Mum would say if she knew that we lived next door to the “House of Love”, as the bishop described the parish church? Ho, hum. At any rate in an odd sort of way I rather enjoyed the occasion. It seemed to typify everything about the New Britain. In the pew ahead of us was a Littlehampton family with a small (maybe six or seven) child who was given freedom of the church by her parents. She wandered up and down the aisles, interrupting her obviously devout parents every couple of minutes, and never ever being told to quieten down, sit still, etc. By the third hymn it was too much for the wife who gave the child a mild (by her standards) rebuke. This was apparently a new experience for the child, and we later recalled the young Zoe (daughter of American friends) who had similarly been reared as a free spirit. Ugh, spank ‘em every time!
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